The Ocean Floor
by cclee123
Summary: The following night of Sansa's marriage to Ramsay. Difficulties arise.


The harsh, metallic heft of a key twisting, and splintered boards pushed from the door's frame jarred her. Her body jerked, and she heaved fom the raw pit of her heart, awake. Sansa began to tremble as she lifted herself to sit.

He whistled into the room, one riding glove balled in his fist, popping each finger from their place on the other. The waxen, amber light of few candles cast shadows on his cheekbones, his working knuckles and fingers: he had a splattered shock of muck and rusted blood across his tunic, taken from man and beast.

 _"And as she fell, I tell thee true..."_ he crooned lowly, his matted hair dipped into his eyes.

She hiccuped. She wanted very much to pry the soaked strings of hair from her swollen mouth, her sweated cheeks; she wanted very much to muster a Stark defiance now that he was back. But instinct restricted movement, and so she willed her shivering inward.

He breathed in, and emitted a louder wave of whistles, swinging on his heels to shove close the door. _"The peasant loved every change and hue.."_ When it shut, he seemed to pause, long fingers arched on the wood. Ramsay clawed at it softly, thinking, before nodding on some unnamed decision. And then he turned to look at her.

He beamed with a small hum. It was a private expression, one given to a sweetheart, or a pet; an honored gift entrusted by chance. His new bride. But his child-grin faltered when he saw that her eyes were not present to meet him. He leaned his body forward, his face inclined.

She set her jaw.

In turn, his joyful countenance dropped, furrowed muscles teeming in the brow, and he jabbed a nail between his teeth, placing his elbow on a fist to study her.

He swung to his left in abrupt comic fashion, advancing on a table where a pitcher of wine and two goblets had been left. The tin clatter woke her, if only for a moment, and he turned back to catch a change.

"Mm?" he offered, raising the pitcher. Sansa burrowed her gaze deeper into the wall.

He turned to pour. "I know that's not how you would've wanted it," he began conversationally. Ramsay gave a testing sip to his, raising his eyebrows to the taste. He smacked his lips and sniffed sharply. "Truthfully..."

Facing her, two cups in both hands regardless, he took strode to the bed.

..."I found the evening a little less than tasteful myself." He extended the goblet.

She remained perfectly rigid.

"Drink," he commanded, tilting the stem. "Your mouth is dry." He placed himself next to her on the bed, hovering the glass above her lap. Finally, sucking in the smallest breath, she took it. "That's it. Now toss it back. All of it."

Sansa obeyed, coughing with a choked splutter. Ramsay watched her, tracing her face and waves of tangled hair with big eyes. "You know..." he began again, taking the glass as father from child, "It does not make me happy, when you don't reply. It's important that we communicate." He noticed a stray drop of drink cleaving to her lip. "We need to..." he sighed, scanning the bed, both frustrated with finding a free patch of coverlet to ball in his fist and a string of words to maintain the capricious hold of his speech. He yanked at the cloth between them.

She realized he was a bit off.

..."to _TALK_ ," he shot, blotting her mouth and raising a hand in emphasis. He rose, grasping his hands behind him. "We've been joined together, you and I. Trusted to continue a legacy." Ramsay fired a glance over his shoulder. "Do you know what that means?" The small window for an answer was wasted, he knew. "Of course you do. You were wedded of course, to that golden cunt for a time. And then that imp." This amused him as he strolled in a circle.

 _"Married_ for all that time, and never taken as a wife should be. You, a lovely creature of the North." The window attracted him, and the moonlight beyond. He glided to it with upturned face, and as she dared a peek at him, she saw the near demonic translucence of his features, the way his eyes fell gently to take in the lunar glow. It occurred to her that he'd never talked this much before doing something shocking.

"But that's alright," he murmured, "I'm from the North, same as you. I understand these things."

"I took you last night and I didn't like it." He spoke to the moon, sending this piece on a raven to the moon. "I pretended you were a water nymph. Something lethal that only I could see." He squeezed his lids together, grimacing. "I like to remember that morning-when we met. The way you looked coming home to a legion of strangers. You could have done something very stupid."

"But you didn't," he chuckled. "No, you let me kiss your hand and you played your part. You smirked at me, d'you remember? As if it was only a matter of time before I would have no eyes. That's how I knew I loved you."

She willed herself to be smaller.

"You're a stupid little girl to most. But there's more." When next he spoke she strained to hear.

"Myranda would have made a fine lady." A pause. "Do you understand?"

This was worse than the inflictions she'd spent the day trying to predict. These were his thoughts.

He charged forward in three strides to her and collapsed at her feet. "You're a stupid little girl," he hissed into her eyes, clapping his hands to either side of her face. He squeezed her earlobes, thumbed her bottom lip. He watched the pink bloom loud in her skin and the green of her eyes shine and spill. He pulled at handfuls of her summer-loved hair. The hoarse acceleration of his breath coaxed out her own impatient mewing, and _God_ there it was, there she was..

But still strong. A fire that never goes out.

 _"Stop, stop..."_

"My beautiful wife," he shuddered, searching everywhere in his face and settling on nothing. "You won't do it. You _won't_ find it. I might not be able to break you, Lady Stark, but you'll never be free of _me."_

He threw her head away from him and made for the door.

"Sleep well," he chirped like a child.


End file.
